


howling road

by croissantkatie



Category: Bandom, Empires
Genre: Audio Format: M4B, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Community: pod-together, Drinking, M/M, Podfic, Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 20-30 Minutes, Touring, Trans Male Character, Writer's Block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:54:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/croissantkatie/pseuds/croissantkatie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What good is Sean to the band if he can't write songs? He doesn't want to have to figure out who he is again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	howling road

**Author's Note:**

> Written by lalejandra for pod_together 2012, and performed/recorded by croissantkatie. Soooo much love to were_duck and la_dissonance for betaing and cheerleading! Also thank you to quintenttsy for betaing the podfic!

[MP3](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2012/B-howling%20road.mp3) [M4B](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2012/B-howling%20road%20by%20croissantkatie,%20lalejandra.m4b)

"Sean, stop," Tom says. The fact that it's a harsh order is what actually makes Sean stop; Tom almost never loses his patience, has never raised his voice at Sean like this before. Sean drops the paper he's shredding onto the seat of the van.

"I hate this," says Sean -- more bitterly than he means to, but, fuck. He's fucking useless.

"Just… let it go." Tom sounds tired, and when Sean darts a look at him, he _looks_ tired. More tired than usual, even for the last leg of a tour.

"Let it go," repeats Sean. "Seriously? Let it go? We don't have another album. We have _no songs_. We have nothing, and you want me to let it go?"

"We don't have to release another album right after this tour," Tom says. He tilts his head back, leans against the side of the van. Sean watches his adam's apple bob when he swallows, and puts a hand up to his own face, rubs it against his stubble. Tom and Max tease him about not shaving, but… he doesn't want to shave. He likes the reminder that sometimes his body does what it's supposed to.

There's so much he wants to say to Tom right now, but he can't, he can't say anything because nothing will make Tom stop being pissed at him. Tom's always been able to play guitar, can't know what it's like when everything inside is frozen. Even after all that bullshit with TAI, Tom could still play guitar.

Finally, Sean just says, "Sorry," and turns his head to look out the window. It's so dark; the white lines flash by, and that's all Sean can see. There aren't any cars on the road, no one else traveling this late at night, pushing to get to the next town so they can sleep in a parking lot. Well, everyone else is already asleep, except Max, who's driving and singing along to Clapton under his breath.

Max and Tom and Ryan have been with Sean through _everything_. Everything. And Al's been there for almost everything. But what good can Sean be to them if he can't write them songs? No good. Worthless. His body doesn't work right half the time, and now his brain isn't working right either.

He doesn't blame Al for wanting to leave, for telling them this would probably be his last tour.

Sean relaxes his jaw, and the vibrations of the van make his teeth rattle a little and his head bang against the window; he loves it, losing himself in the shaking, knowing he can trust his body not to fall apart. His bones hold together. He breathes in for a few stripes and out for a few stripes, and tries to time his pulse to them. It doesn't work but it's something to focus on, something that isn't Tom, too tired and too annoyed, sitting next to him but not touching him.

*

The venue is tiny, but it has an actual green room for them, joy of joys, and a private bathroom. So rare. Sean locks himself in the bathroom and washes his face, scrubs it free of van grime. He'd like to dig his fingers under his skin and peel it off, see what's underneath -- pink muscle and white skeleton and red blood. When he blinks at himself in the mirror, he can see it, skin sliding off; he blinks again, and it's back to his face.

Sean's best feature has always been his nose. It's a little crooked and a little mushed and a little too big, and he thinks it is probably what really makes him look like a man. Even more than his stubble, even more than the dick he keeps carefully tucked in his boxer-briefs.

It can't give him words, though. It can't make songs exist.

He touches it, runs his fingers over it, pushes it up to make a pig face at himself. He's about to snort at himself with his eyes crossed when Max bangs on the door.

"Van Primp, let me in, come on."

"Gimme a sec," he calls back, and pulls the bag with syringes and carefully packed glass bottles from his backpack. Private bathroom today is good timing, because it's a T day. He drops his pants, swipes his thigh with the alcohol wipe. He'd been hairy before T, but is so much hairier now, and he loves it.

The T is cold every time and he never gets used to it, but he likes that about it, almost like he can feel it working, being absorbed into his body.

He has a separate bag for used syringes, packs everything back up carefully and quickly, and looks in the mirror one last time before he lets Max in.

"Sorry," he says, and Max bumps his chest gently with a shoulder as he walks into the bathroom.

Max doesn't bother to close the door when he pisses.

That's the kind of thing that Sean knows he shouldn't be jealous of anymore, but he still is.

"Hey," Tom says from the couch. "C'mere."

"Nah, I'm good," Sean tells him, heading for the table with bottles of water.

"No, come here now," Tom orders, and the little pieces of steel in his voice thread into Sean's chest. He doesn't _have_ to do what Tom says, but he always feels better when he does.

Sean abandons the water and sits down next to Tom, who slings an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close. "You have to stop," he says quietly, for Sean's ears only. "You're only gonna make yourself crazy."

"And for the lovebirds!" yells Ryan, and Sean's hand shoots up to catch the bottle of water Ryan throws at them.

"Uncool, dude, you could have broken Tom's face," says Sean, but he grins and twists the top off. Tom taps his fingers on Sean's shoulder, but Sean can't right now. He can't.

Ryan jumps on Al's back; Al staggers, but rallies, and lets Ryan ride him around the room and out the door. When Max leaves the bathroom and follows, Sean feels a little like he's been set up. Panic flashes through his head for a second -- they're kicking him out of the band because he hasn't been able to write, because they've realized that he's worthless without words.

But no. No, they wouldn't do that before a show.

Then he feels a wash of shame and self-loathing, hot and prickly under his skin. They wouldn't do that _at all_. It's all in Sean's head, because in the absence of songs begging to be written, he's developed an overactive imagination that fucks with him all the time.

"What's this?" he says.

"You're not listening to me," says Tom, and tightens his arm around Sean. "You need to listen."

"I'm listening!" protests Sean. He is, but Tom is _wrong_ here.

Tom takes his arm from around Sean's shoulders and turns so he's facing Sean on the couch. He holds Sean's face in both his hands, his thumbs digging into the space behind Sean's jaw.

"Stop. Stop doing this to yourself. Please." Tom takes a deep breath and Sean is horrified to realize his eyes are shiny. He's making Tom cry? Please no. "Give yourself a break -- the words will come back, I swear, but torturing yourself isn't good for you or us."

"And if they don't come back?" Sean challenges. Tom's fingers tighten on Sean's neck. "We can't be a band with no songs."

"We have plenty of songs. We can't be a band without _you_."

Sean feels himself flush, but can't look away from Tom's eyes.

"I," Sean says, but doesn't know what to say after that. He puts both his hands over Tom's hands on his face. Tom's hands are warm where they're on his face, but cold on the outsides.

"I can't be in this band without you," Tom says softly. He presses his mouth to Sean's -- just a brush, just a tiny kiss, just a sweet touch of his lips -- and then pulls away. "Okay?"

Sean nods stiffly. He knows his eyes are too wide, and his mouth is open.

"Say it?" It's more of a request than an order; Sean can tell the difference. Most of the time.

"Okay," he repeats. "I believe you. Okay."

Tom looks like he wants to say more, but instead he lets go of Sean and moves away.

"Okay," Tom says quietly, once he's near the table with the water. He pulls out his phone and doesn't look back at Sean. His cheeks are flushed a bright pink, and he's chewing on his bottom lip.

Sean just watches him, sits on his hands so that he doesn't touch his mouth. Tom's never kissed him on the mouth before -- on the cheek once or twice, he thinks, and on the forehead a couple of times, but they're not the kind of casual-makeouts band Chicago seems to be known for somehow. Sean's not really a kissing-dudes kind of guy anyway, but he breaks every rule for Tom whenever Tom wants him to, and he's not _against_ kissing guys. He's mostly straight, he's pretty sure, but… if Tom wanted to kiss him again, Sean wouldn't object.

Would kiss back, even.

But he doesn't get a chance to say that to Tom, because everyone else is back, and loud, and Sean manages to find a big smile from somewhere and paste it onto his face.

*

Tom doesn't kiss him again, and it's not like Sean _really_ wants him to, but… he kind of really wants him to. Just like all the words for songs, though, words to say that don't seem to be anywhere in Sean's throat. Tom touches him more now, though. They're not a band to shy away from cuddling -- "Wolf pack," Max calls them -- but Tom seeks Sean out more now. He comes to Sean for hugs after shows and sits next to him whenever he can, thighs lined up and pressed together, and links their arms when they walk around.

It's hardest in the mornings, because Sean's used to being able to write then, and when he can't he feels hollow and his throat gets sore. But he repeats Tom's words to himself, "I can't be in this band without you," and doesn't stare at the blank pages of his notebook for hours on end anymore.

It's worse once they're off tour and Sean has nothing to fill his days but coffee. 

When they were writing _Howl_ , Max would call him every night after work and say, "Okay, Van Wordsmith, what's new for me?" and Sean would read the words over the phone, Tom sitting with him, guitar on his lap, or they'd head to the Stegers' together, Ryan's erratic driving making them shout, Al's laugh loud while he practiced massage stuff on them whenever they got stuck in traffic. Sean doesn't really get the massage thing, but he'd always liked leaning on Tom while Al rubbed his feet and ankles.

Al never asks Sean to take his shirt off so Al can rub his back, even though he asks everyone else to, because he's a good dude like that. Sean hopes he at least sticks around to do the next album, because they could find another bass player, but it's going to be hard to find someone who fits so well with them.

His niceness, his _carefulness_ , had thrown Sean off at first; he'd complained to Tom about feeling like a high maintenance diva, and Tom had said, "We all like being able to be careful with you, Sean. Letting us be nice to you is like you doing us a favor."

Sean hadn't quite believed that, but had liked it, anyway, liked knowing that his band liked him enough to try to help him feel comfortable around them. Ryan's been an equal opportunity dick the whole time Sean's known him, but he's never made a mistake about Sean's name or pronouns or anything. 

Even though Sean wishes it was easy, not something anyone has to _try_ for, he likes knowing his band thinks he's worth the effort.

He holds this close to himself in the mornings when he wakes up and can't write. He thinks about Tom's words in the green room when he's serving coffee and having his butt pinched and doesn't have the solace of new songs to fall into. And he reminds himself of all this when he gets home at night and sprawls on the couch with Tom and tries not to notice that Max carefully doesn't ask about new songs when he calls.

*

"I'm gonna lock myself in my room," he tells Tom one night. "I have two days off, I'm not coming out until I have a song."

"That's stupid," Tom says flatly. "Do not do that." And even though Tom's words are trying to crawl into Sean's bones, he won't let them.

"I have to do something," Sean says. "Gimme that bottle of Jack, I'm going to drink until I can write."

"That isn't going to work," Tom says, but hands him the bottle -- and when Sean crawls out of his room and throws up in the middle of the night, Tom is there with a cool cloth for the back of his neck, his strong fingers rubbing Sean's back.

It's not the first time Tom has seen Sean without a shirt on, but it's the first time Sean feels like Tom's eyes are lingering on his scars. But when Sean looks at him, Tom's eyes are on his face -- worried and gentle. Just the thought makes Sean nauseated all over again, though, and Tom pulls his hair out of his eyes while he pukes more, catches Sean's necklace when it threatens to fall into the toilet.

"Sean," sighs Tom, over and over. He helps Sean sip water until Sean can sit up, gives him a multivitamin and a couple of Advil to swallow, mouthwash to swish and spit, and helps him back to bed. He clears the crumpled papers away so Sean's not lying on them and takes the empty bottle. Sean can hear him throw it into the recycling, wash his hands. When he comes back into the room, Sean's waiting for the lecture, but Tom doesn't give him one -- and doesn't leave.

Instead, Tom crawls into bed with Sean and curls around him, a hand over Sean's stomach. Sean readjusts his dick; he knows better, but he always feels like it's going to fall out of his underwear when he lies on his side.

"I thought we dealt with this," Tom whispers into his hair.

The room is kind of spinning a little. Sean wants to flip over and look at Tom, but definitely can't. Instead, he moves his hand so it's over Tom's, and Tom spreads his fingers so Sean's can rest between them. Like they're holding hands, almost.

"I don't want to have to figure out who I am again," Sean says, and hopes that makes sense to Tom.

"It'll come," says Tom. "I promise, you'll get there. Writer's block isn't forever, you know that. This has happened before."

"It's never been this bad before." Sean drags a long breath in. "What if it _is_ forever."

Sean feels Tom shrug. "We can be a cover band. Pixies and Black Sabbath, maybe."

Sean laughs, but it comes out as more of a sob. "Max would hate that."

"Max loves playing with us," Tom corrects. "This is his band, too. And we have all those songs we didn't put on _Howl_ , we can change them, use them. I keep telling you, we have options besides you torturing yourself."

"What good am I if I can't write songs for you?" Sean definitely did not puke out enough of the alcohol.

"I love you, with or without the songs."

Sean holds his breath. Did Tom really... is that... what?

"Sean?" asks Tom, sounding more tentative than Tom should ever sound. "Did I just... are you okay?"

Sean lets his breath out in a rush. "I love you, too, Tommy," he says, but Tom still feels tense behind him, so he lifts Tom's hand off his stomach and kisses his palm. It feels like the right thing to do. He lets his tongue out a little; Tom's hand is salty, a little soapy, a little bright like Jack. "I love you," he repeats.

Tom sighs into his hair, and Sean feels his mouth slide over the skin of his neck. "Good." Tom's mouth moves against Sean's skin when he talks, his beard scratches, and he kisses Sean's neck, his shoulder, scrapes his teeth over the top of Sean's arm.

"Good," Tom says again. Sean pulls Tom's hand to rest on his chest, and hopes Tom can feel the way Sean's heart is stuttering against his bones.

*

Tom is still there when Sean wakes up, in Sean's bed, sprawled in the light coming in from the windows. Sean edges his notebook from under the pillow Tom's using and opens it up. He doesn't feel _fixed_ , but he doesn't feel the total crushing despair of the last few months either.

_I feel I'm waking up,_ he scrawls. Not quite right, but a start.


End file.
